


La Petite Mort

by seasalticecream32



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasalticecream32/pseuds/seasalticecream32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin doesn't remember Arthur's face after two thousand years, but he certainly remembers his broad shoulders and blond hair and blue eyes. So when he needs to let loose a little steam, Merlin doesn't think there's any harm in having a type. Or at least, there never was before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**La Petite Mort**

Merlin didn’t bother with the name of the blond haired, blue eyed idiot he’d dragged in here. Everyone was here for one thing only, and Merlin wasn’t one for beating around the bush.

He’d only taken so long to get to it because he’d been waiting on someone with the right build, the right shade of blond. It wouldn’t compare to the real Arthur, Merlin knew. After two thousand years he may not remember the exact cut of Arthur’s jaw but he could never forget the ache of want that ran through him. It had never really gone away, after all.

So this bloke was just going to have to do. Derisive snorts and snide comments about poking ribs and all.

Merlin made quick work of the stranger’s trousers. He nudged them down from narrow hips and tight boxer briefs and smirked to himself. Despite all of the jerk’s joking, the man was half hard already.

“Well, get on with it then, since you’re so eager.” The voice above him chided. Merlin nearly swore in the dark room as the pompous tone sent a wave of want through him. He hadn’t ever gotten over the arrogant prick types, it seemed.

“Shut up or you’ll get nothing at all.” Merlin mumbled against thighs that were ridiculously warm. He nipped lightly and laughed when muscle rippled below the skin.

The breathing above him was certainly a bit shaky now. “Yeah right. You want it too much. It’s all over your face.”

Merlin paused for a moment, pretending to consider. As the legs below him shifted, he let out a sharp laugh before he ran his tongue, flat and wet, against the vein and followed up until he took the head in his mouth and sucked hard.

The curse above him was stifled by a groan, and Merlin was pleased to feel a hand slide behind his neck. He hummed in appreciation as fingernails dug into his nape, moving his mouth slowly down until his nose brushed against blond hairs.

“If you don’t move faster, I swear to God—” Whatever threat was about to be made was put to rest as Merlin moved up again, setting an agonizing pace. He hummed every time the man above him hissed or groaned or cursed in pleasure.

Which turned out to be quite a lot, as whoever it was appeared to be quite vocal. Merlin moved his tongue to press against soft skin and hard muscle, quicker and harder, and nearly growled when strong hands tightened in his hair. Every brush of the not-Arthur’s head against Merlin’s mouth made the man grow louder, until Merlin was certain that someone on the other side of this door knew his name by heart. He drank in the man’s orgasm like white salted liquor and then fled before the stranger’s call of “ _Mer_ lin” could make him turn around.

It should have surprised him, had he not been enjoying himself so immensely. After all, Merlin made it a point to never tell these strangers his name, and he certainly hadn’t made any exceptions.

It wasn’t until several hours later that his buzzing magic gave him a clue as to who he’d left with their pants round their knees without a clue in the world to find him.

And he hadn’t even asked Arthur for his number.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin may have slept for another hundred years if his bladder insisted that it couldn’t carry on any longer. When he’d rolled out of bed, his mouth dry as sand and his eyes barely cracking open in the afternoon sun blasting through his window, he’d been pretty sure that his day was going to be a hell in sunglasses. He’d shuffled his way to the bathroom, rubbed his bleary eyes and alcohol swollen cheeks, and tried not to fall on his face while taking a piss.

Maybe it was his splitting headache that made him impatient. Maybe it was his ridiculously creaky bones and freezing house that made him cranky. Whatever it was, the sudden violent knocks against his door were met with a too-strong use of magic that nearly swung the door off its hinges. He hadn’t even made it to the hallway when someone was standing in his kitchen.

Merlin took a moment to register an arched blond eyebrow and the pouted lips smirking at the disarray in his kitchen. He counted to fifty to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. It had happened before and it usually left disaster in his home when he realized that it wasn’t real. Not that a disaster would look much different.

As he was coming to turns with the not-quite-a-stranger standing in his kitchen, poking around his dirty dishes and scrunching his nose at a growing and possibly moving lump of something green on his table, the not-quite-a-stranger started to shift on his feet.

Neither of them had said anything. Merlin had forgotten that his mouth tasted like a small rodent had died in it. He had entirely forgotten that he was holding his pants up, unbuttoned and unzipped, his shirt twisted and riding halfway up his stomach. If the not-quite-a-stranger noticed that his hair wasn’t combed and his eyes were still crusted from sleep that morning, then Merlin couldn’t have known from the way the man was looking at him.

If Merlin could describe the look that probably-Arthur gave him, he would have probably said it was reverent. Which was ridiculous. Merlin didn’t want to be revered. Especially not by could-be-Arthur-maybe. It was probably the absurdity of someone who was very-Arthur-looking giving him a look so awed that made Merlin finally break their silence.

“So, I see you found my house. This could be considered stalking, you know,” Merlin said. Except, when he said it he remembered the way the not-stranger’s hand had run through his hair and the needy way that those pouting lips had formed Merlin’s name. And Merlin was suddenly very embarrassed about the whole ordeal. “You know, I’m not usually—”

And maybe it was his imagination, or maybe it was a hallucination, or maybe it was a dream, but Merlin found he didn’t care too much anymore. Because this person, who looked remarkably like Merlin’s blurry memories of Arthur, was wrapping his arms around him and lifting him up and walking him back as if he knew where he was going. And Merlin was just scrawny enough that he was carried all the way to the sofa-bed and dumped without any exertion on maybe-Arthur’s part.

Merlin was desperate enough not to question it. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of sun baked cloth when Arthur climbed over him. He allowed himself a moment to feel warm skin push in on all his centuries old aching wants. He gasped at the feel of a rough hand on his cheek and the flow of magic he hadn’t felt in two thousand years.

“Merlin, you idiot, it’s me,” vibrated against his neck and burned into his skin like a brand.

And God, it had been so long since he had heard that voice speak to him that he nearly choked on it. He could no more have held back his sobs than he could have stopped the earth turning or put out the sun. Lips against his neck, hand in his hair, hips pressed into his, Merlin came undone.

His magic rolled and spun away from him, seeping into Arthur’s skin. It reacquainted itself with the beating of Arthur’s heart, with the stretch of Arthur’s muscles as he towered above him, with the shrink and fill of Arthur’s lungs as he huffed out a laugh against the skin behind Merlin’s ear. It ran through the pumping blood and measured the speed in his pulse and it warmed Merlin with the news that _yes, after 2000 years, Arthur was alive._

“Merlin, you’re getting everything rather wet.” And this time the voice was a low whisper in his ear, a soothing sound of comfort. “You need to calm down. And stop with the rain.”

Merlin closed his eyes against the fingers running delicate lines over the shell of his ear. A smile crept across his lips and he realized that it wasn’t just tears on his cheek that he was feeling. Everything in the room echoed with the _pit pat_ of rain. He laughed, ridiculous and loud, and then laughed again when Arthur scrunched his nose at the smell of Merlin’s breath.

“God, I had forgotten how much of a girl you were, Merlin,” Arthur said, even as he kissed his way up Merlin’s jaw and grinned against the water running down his cheek.

“I waited two thousand years for you, you Prat. I think I’m allowed to react however I want.”

And maybe Merlin was too excited to care about his rancid breath or his bedhead or his soaked living room, because as far as he was concerned he would kiss Arthur in his raining living room for the next hundred years if he could.


End file.
